


Waiting

by Kefalion



Series: Harry Potter's Soulmates [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kefalion/pseuds/Kefalion
Summary: Harry's soulmark words are not written in English. Loki's are. It makes things complicated for both of them. And it means a lot of waiting.





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleMissXanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissXanda/gifts).



> I've read so many great short stories about soulmates/soulmarks that I decided that I wanted to write a few of my own. To make that happen I've accepted a few requests (check the series description to see if I'm currently taking requests), asking who out there in the fandom jungle is meant to be with Harry Potter.
> 
> Fandom: Thor  
> Character: Loki  
> Year (when on the timeline do they meet?): Pre Thor (2011)  
> Adjective/adverb: Charming  
> Noun: Present  
> Requested by: LittleMissXanda

"Oh!" Fleur Delacour said delightedly, even as she wrapped her little sister in a large towel, drying off the girl. The second task of the Triwizard Tournament had ended moments before when Harry swam ashore after having rescued two people from the bottom of the Black Lake. "Your soulmate is French!"

"What?" said Harry, and he looked at his bare arm where the first words his soulmate would ever say to him were exposed.

_I have been waiting for you to say that far longer than this evening._

"Ah, non," said Delacour. "Bien sûr, your soulmate doesn't 'ave to be French, jyst French speaking."

"What?" Harry said again, his eyebrows climbing up under his dripping fringe.

Delacour smiled at him. "I'm sorry. If it's private to you, I understand. I will not pry. Thank you again for saving Gabrielle." She bustled her little sister away, all the while speaking in rapid French.

"Did you understand any of that?" Harry asked, turning to Ron who threw a towel at his head.

"Haven't the faintest what she meant by it. Your words are in English. Anyone can see that."

"Yeah, anyone can see that," Harry agreed, tossing the towel back at Ron.

Only, not everyone could.

Viktor Krum caught sight of Harry's mark when Hermione dragged him over to Harry and Ron, and the first thing he said was: "I could teach you Bulgarian if you would like. Help you understand when someone say your words."

"Excuse me?" said Harry.

Krum's heavy brow meant that he always seemed to be frowning, but at that, the expression grew more pronounced. "Your soulmate words are written in Bulgarian."

"Viktor, are you alright?" Hermione asked, waving her hand as if she wanted to check the temperature of Krum's forehead, but changed her mind halfway through the motion. "Maybe something is wrong with you because of your partial transfiguration. Harry's words are in English."

"There's something going on here," said Harry, stopping Hermione from dragging Krum off to see Madame Pomfrey. "Fleur Delacour just commented on it as well. She thought they were written in French."

"That's odd," said Hermione, grabbing Harry's arm and looking at the words. "How can they appear differently?"

Harry pulled free of her grasp, self consciously hiding his arm under his towel. "I've no idea."

Hermione pondered the issue for a moment before declaring: "We should try to see if other people who speak other languages see other things."

And they did. Over the next couple of weeks, Hermione found and brought a multitude of people who knew more languages than English before Harry. He was terribly embarrassed by it all, and it was only made worse when the whole thing became an article in the Daily Prophet, naturally written by Rita Skeeter. It said that Harry's soul mark was malfunctioning, that he likely didn't have a soulmate at all, that he was destined to be alone forever, and that people should be wary of him least the condition be contagious.

For all that Harry hated the new slew of attention, and having lines from the article quoted at him in the halls, they did discover something worthwhile. People saw the words in the language they knew best. The Patil Twins and Cho Chang saw the words in English, although they knew Hindi and Mandarin respectively. Students from Beauxbatons saw the words mostly in French, but a couple saw them in Spanish, one person saw them written in Basque, and another in Portuguese. Likewise, Durmstrang students saw Harry's words in a variety of languages. German. Czech. Russian. Polish. Finnish.

A girl who saw them in Swedish provided a potential explanation.

"I think you would call it Allspeak," Anna Lagerqvist said as she convened with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the courtyard one cold Saturday in the beginning of March.

"Jag har väntat på att du skulle säga det mycket längre än ikväll," she read from Harry's arm, and then she squinted, tilting her head to the side. "I have been waiting for you to say that far longer than this evening. Huh. I'd have translated it, I have waited for you to say that, but Swedish doesn't have the ing-form, so." She shrugged.

"You can see it in English too?" Harry asked, covering his arm back up. There was some snow in the air, even if it wasn't cold enough to stick to the ground.

Lagerqvist nodded, her short, blond hair bobbing. "It's about changing your perception. I think I might be able to see it in German too if I try. Allspeak isn't a language like others; it's… are you familiar with Plato's cave?"

"Yes!" said Hermione, eyes sparkling as she leaned forward eagerly. "I think I know what you're getting at. Is the language more like concepts than actual words? Our idea of things rather than the realisation we use to communicate them?"

"Exactly!" Lagerqvist smiled.

"That's amazing. How is it possible? It's magic, isn't it? It must be magic. Is it done through mind reading of some sort? Or is it—"

"That's great and all," Harry said, stopping Hermione before she could get Lagerqvist started on a discussion about cognitive linguistics. "But what I'd like to know is who has a language like that?"

"Asarna," said Lagerqvist, developing her answer, when they looked at her blankly, Hermione included. "Eh, that is, people from Asgård."

"People from where now?" said Harry.

"They're the gods of Nordic mythology."

"Norse mythology?" said Hermione.

"That's what you call it? Yes, that. Tor, Oden, Frej, Freja and so on."

"Gods? My words will be spoken by a god?" Harry looked at at his arm, trying to imagine the words hidden there being said by a deity, someone larger than life, all-seeing, all-knowing. It was crazy. But in a way, so was magic, and magic was real. "Okay," he said. "Gods."

Lagerqvist laughed. "Relax. They're not gods, not really. But to the people who lived over a thousand years ago, they seemed like it because of what they could do. Though truth be told, we don't know too much about them. The Muggles have muddled up their knowledge. Not being able to write makes keeping things accurate harder than it already is, and well, we witches and wizards weren't all that much better. It happened too long ago. I think it's exciting that they'll show up on Earth again. That's what your words mean; they'll be back. I hope I live to see it. You're very lucky." She smiled at Harry.

"Yeah, lucky," he said, not thinking that he was anything of the sort; he was just a magnet for all things weird.

Harry thought about his words from time to time over the next few years, though he didn't worry all that much about them. Too many other things happened for it to be a primary concern. And then he knew that it was never to be. He would die before turning eighteen. Voldemort would, at last, get to do what he'd set out to do on Halloween all those years ago. It meant that somewhere out there, someone who spoke in a language of ideas and concepts would find the words imprinted on their skin fading away painfully, the possibility of Harry saying them ending because of his death. He was a little sad that he would not get to live long enough to meet his soulmate, but it was only the first thing on a long list of things he wouldn't get to do, and he was doing it so that all the people up at the castle could have a chance to meet their soulmates and live full lives. His own life in exchange for that wasn't a very high price to pay.

_\- Waiting -_

Loki was glad that most people did not bother to sharpen their perception when glancing at his soulmark. It was embarrassing that the words of his mark were written in a Midgardian script. It was enough that he earned scorn for spending time mastering the arcane arts when he could use that time to enhance his physical prowess. If people knew that his soulmate was a member of a weak, short-lived race, living on a planet that was unaware of the larger world they would see it as further evidence of his lack of worth, and their regard for him would decrease further.

Only his parents knew. They'd helped him identify the letters and the language. Latin script. A language of the future. A dialect not yet in use, but related to those spoken in the regions they'd mostly frequented.

_Sorry about keeping you waiting._

Unlike his peers, Loki continued to frequent those regions, having a reason they lacked, waiting for the day when someone might speak his words. It took seven hundred years before he began to believe that the time had come. But no one said his words. Spending the accumulated time of decades away from home yielded nothing. Bitter, he thought it just as well. It was only a strain of morbid curiosity that made him travel to England and then America, and Australia, and a few other places, time and again. He didn't really want one of the filthy, uncouth, brutes, any of the uneducated, sickly peasants or vapid, self-important aristocrats to be the one to say his words.

Eventually, he stopped going, stopped seeking it out. Instead, he spent time in realms where people were more civilized and might stay alive between one visit and the next.

If it were meant to be, it would happen.

"You have stopped your visits to Midgard," his mother remarked when roughly a hundred years had passed since he was last on Earth. She's sought him out in his study, entering the chamber, dismissive of the security measures Loki had in place to assure his privacy.

"Took you long enough to notice," he said, calling up the illusion of a new diagram as directed by the text in the book he was studying, paying it more attention than he did her.

"Do you care to explain why?"

"Not particularly."

"Shall I guess?"

"If it pleases you." He moved his hands, rotating the glowing lines of the diagram.

"You grew tired of waiting. You grew tired of searching for something you are not certain you want to find."

"How very perceptive." Loki moved his finger, similar to plucking the strings of an instrument and the circles and lines of the diagram began to move lazily.

"Midgardians are not so different from us."

Loki looked at her, eyebrows rising. "That is a grave insult to us. Or a very inflated estimation of their worth."

Frigga shook her head, smiling, hair and cloth whispering at the movement. "If that is what you think of them, you must not have immersed yourself among them, staying an outsider and stranger when on Midgard. While their lives are short, they are passionate, curious, emotional beings. You could do far worse."

Snorting, Loki shut his book harshly, cancelling the diagram. "I guess I could have been stuck with a frost giant for a mate."

Frigga looked down at the floor. "Well." She walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting down next to him. "What I meant to say is that you will regret not searching for your soulmate. As fleeting as a human life is, you stand the chance of missing it. I do not want to find you one day, in pain as your mark fades away, left empty and haunted by all the what-ifs. Go to Midgard. Stay there as long as needed. Live like them, with them. Do not only watch and observe from a distance. Your father will understand the need for your absence and neglected duties."

"Will he?"

"I have spoken with him."

"You mean that you ordered him to see things your way."

She smiled and did not disagree. She reached up and brushed a strand of dark hair away from Loki's face. "He has agreed that you may pursue this for as long as needed. It cannot be much longer until the time is right. English will soon change into a form that is different from the one your words are written in. Do not delay, my son. I would hate to see you miss out on this."

"Very well, I shall go soon." Loki rose and put his bock back on the overflowing bookshelf. He let his eyes linger on the spines of his collection for a moment. There were books from Midgard there, leather-bound tomes with titles printed in gold. "Thor has asked me to come with him to Alfheim. I could not conceive of a reason to say no."

He felt the weight of the look she was giving him, and turned to confirm that it was there. "Fine," he said, holding up his hands, admitting to the deceit. "There is an item there I wish to retrieve. Our goals align. Once we return, I shall consider going to Earth."

_\- Waiting -_

Trudging through the wilderness on Alfheim was pleasant. There was no part of the realm that wasn't enchanting or scenic. Even locals far removed from their bright cities, and the lush pastures and orchards everything was welcoming and peaceful. Sunlight glittered off the river they were following, the foliage of the trees was locked perpetually in a state of spring sheerness, and the air was sweet.

For all that it lovely, Loki was of the opinion that going on foot was ridiculous. They could have used an aircraft, which he could have shielded with illusions to keep their approach stealthy, but Thor had insisted that minimal use of both technology and sorcery was required. Why he thought he was qualified to make the call, Loki didn't know. They had reason to believe that Amora the Enchantress had taken refuge in a secluded valley on Alfheim. She has escaped Aagardian prison many years back, keeping away and keeping silent until recently. Loki understood Amora far better than Thor did. While she was skilled, he knew many of her tricks and he could work around her. She might have prepared for that, but it wouldn't be enough. He was better. And really, quite regardless of what Thor thought, Loki would have to cloak them as they got closer or she would know that they were there. He wasn't so amateurish that using stealth magic would set off her defences.

Wading across the river, water up to his waist, Loki grumbled. "Why did I agree to come with you?"

"I don't know," said Thor who was walking first. "It couldn't possibly have anything to do with your desire to retrieve the set of daggers she stole from you, the ones that were a present from Mother?"

Loki stumbled on a slippery rock, concentration diverted from the environment. He caught himself before he could fall into the water. "You knew?"

Thor looked over his shoulder, grinning widely. "No, I did not, but when you agreed so readily, only resisting half as much as expected, I guessed. And now you've proved me right. I'm not as easily tricked as you believe."

"I'd say it's a pleasant surprise, only it isn't."

"Ah, how you wound me!"

"If only that were true."

Thor laughed.

Quite contrary to what he wanted, Loki smiled, getting caught up in his brother's mood.

Then he slipped again, his attention once more diverted. He fell into the river, his mouth filling with water, cutting off the agonised scream that had been drawn from his lungs.

He didn't notice his predicament. The pain emanating from his arm filled his senses. His other hand held the spot, trying to contain the soul-searing ache. His mind was filled with denial.  _No. No, no, no. Impossible. No._  He knew very well what the pain meant, but he could not accept it. It was what his mother had warned him could happen. His soulmate had died. Was dead. Was gone. Was never going to speak to him. Had died before Loki could return to Earth. Only that could not be true.  _No._ The physical pain wasn't any more real than the event that had unleashed it. It couldn't be.

"Loki!" Thor held him in his arms, keeping his head above the rushing water.

Loki couldn't answer.

"What is the matter? How can I help? You must tell me!"

The genuine, the rare concern, would have been touching had he possessed the wherewithal to understand it.

"No," Loki said hoarsely, his mental mantra becoming voiced. "No, no, no." His no turned to a keen of pain. He hadn't cared before. He'd told himself that he didn't care. Lies. He had let his own pride damn him.

Thor pried his hand away from his arm, pulled up his sleeve and saw the fading words. They had been black, contrasting against pale skin. Now they were rapidly growing dimmer.

Indiscernible.

Gone.

"Damn. Heimdall! It's okay, brother. You'll be okay. The pain will pass soon. Heimdall, take us home!"

The Bifrost engulfed them, bright colours surrounding them. Before they landed, bringing with them sufficient water to flood the observatory, the pain faded.

Blinking, still in Thor's arms, Loki breathed. The memory of the pain haunted him. He looked at his arm, ready to see nothing there, and as the familiar characters greeted him, he flailed, tumbling to the ground. If he weren't already completely soaked, he would have become so now.

"Loki?"

"How?" he gasped, tracing the precious words with trembling fingers.

_Sorry about keeping you waiting._

He held up his arm, showing it to Thor.

Thor gaped. "They were gone. I saw them disappear."

Loki turned to Heimdall, looking up at the all-seeing guardian. "Do you know who..?"

Heimdall shook his head, light glinting off his large, golden helmet. "I kept my eyes on you. I saw the words on your arm go and return. I did not see who escaped the clutches of death."

Loki climbed to his feet, water splashing around him. "Look now!" he ordered. "There must still be some trace of what happened. Midgard. Somewhere where they speak English."

Heimdall's eyes turned distant, the gold in them swirling as he gazed into the void unblinkingly.

"Midgard?" Thor asked.

"Yes. Midgard," Loki said shortly. "Make fun of that all you want."

"No, no. It's not something to... It's fine. It's good. I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would."

The corners of Thor's mouth lowered, and his gaze lowered with them. "Not now," he said in little more than a whisper. "I wouldn't say something like that to you now."

"I believe I've discovered something," said Heimdall, gaze remaining far away. "I cannot see properly. It's partially shielded."

"They have technology that can hinder you?" Loki asked.

"Not technology, no. It's energy similar to what you use. Illusions. Trickery. Coercion demanding that anyone who does not belong look away."

"How have I missed this? All that time on Midgard and I never knew that they use magic."

"I cannot say how it escaped your notice. If I were you I would start my search by finding these people. If I discover more, I will alert you."

"Thank you. I shall leave at once."

"Loki, shouldn't you rest?" Thor said. "We need to tell mother and father what happened."

"My soulmate has died once. I need to be there before it happens again. Heimdall, open the Bifrost."

Heimdall turned the large sword that was the key to the Bifrost, activating the rainbow bridge.

Thor touched Loki's shoulder. "Good luck, brother. May you find what you seek."

Giving a small nod to Thor, Loki stepped through.

_\- Waiting -_

Four years. That is how long Loki has been searching. Finding the wizarding world had been easy once he knew to look for it. That the community in America was near completely isolated from the rest of the world explained why he had missed it. It was not a good excuse, but it was an excuse. He should have noticed them. They hadn't been hiding when he first came to the planet. But in the beginning, he'd been dragged along by Thor, and later he'd not spent more time there than it took to confirm that the dialect of his mark did not yet exist, and then they hid. Once he'd found them, Loki had learned that immersing himself among them required more work than he had expected, and it was work that had to be done if he was to discover who among them could possibly be his soulmate rather than hoping that chance lead to their paths crossing.

Although nothing was certain, seeing as the media was less reliable than tavern gossip, Loki believed that he had, at last, learned who had cheated death. Harry Potter. The dates coincided, and while no one could say for sure that Harry Potter had died on the second of May four years earlier, he was the only known survivor of the killing curse. It was good enough that Loki desired a meeting. He'd sent numerous owls, but he had yet to receive a reply. Loki could understand it. Public figures, celebrities, were the recipient of much attention. He shuddered to think of how much correspondence awaited him in Asgard. By necessity, some people would never hear back from him.

Continuing to tune out the noise of the other patrons at the Three Broomsticks, Loki dipped his quill, filling it with ink one last time to sign his name at the bottom of his next letter. That done, he took out his wand, a necessary tool to get by in the world of wizards, and tapped the pine stick on the letter, having it dry instantly and fold itself up.

Going to Harry Potter's home, or finding him at the Ministry, using Heimdall's sight to corner the wizard would have been easier, but he was determined to make a good first impression. With how long he had waited, becoming impatient now and rushing would be foolish.

So naturally, he did not rush up from his seat the moment Harry Potter entered the pub together with a group of friends. He did not join the crowd of people who wished to shake the wizard's hand or beg for his autograph and demand some of his time. He merely leaned back, excitement swelling in his chest.

It was meant to be. Tonight was the night.

_\- Waiting -_

Harry allowed the smile to drain from his face, sighing silently. People weren't as bad as they had been. The attention he received was friendlier, more along the lines of people simply wishing him a good evening than they wished for him to give full interviews, detailing every aspect of his last month, but it remained tiring to start any night out dealing with the crowd.

He sat down at the table by the window that his friends had gotten, and gratefully accepted the firewhisky infused Butterbeer that had been ordered for him, taking a large gulp from it.

"On a scale, how bad were they?" Ron asked.

"I give them two out of five."

"Not bad," said Neville.

"Not bad," Harry agreed.

"Right. Now that we're all here. Thank you very much for taking your sweet time, Potter."

"Shut it, Seamus."

"Nope. There is no shutting me. As I was saying, now that we're all here, the evening's goal is that all members of our little party who hasn't met their soulmarks are to go home with a partner, yeah?"

"I don't know," Neville said.

"Yes, you do. It'll be good for you," said Dean with a grin.

"You're only saying that because you're the only one who's excluded from this."

"Yeah," said Dean. "I have it pretty good. I don't need to search for someone to spend the night with, and I get to watch you miserable sods make fools of yourselves."

"Now there's only one problem," said Seamus. "There doesn't seem to be all that many witches here tonight which means that you two," he nodded at Ron and Neville, "are out of luck."

"Thank Merlin for that." Neville slumped in his chair.

"Let's see who we have here." Seamus craned his head, searching and evaluating the people in the room. "There's Roger Davies, straight. More's the pity; he's a looker. Harrington, no. Llewelyn?"

"Engaged to his soulmate," said Dean.

"Right. Aha! There's Luke Johnson. Hmm possibly. You or me Harry?"

"Not me," said Harry, taking another large gulp of his drink, cheeks reddening as he decidedly didn't look in the direction of Johnson.

Seamus grinned. "Already tried that, yeah? Any good?"

Harry's blush deepened.

"Awesome. Me then. And for you, let's see. Not Moray, not Phillips, and certainly not Flint. Hmm. I don't know who that guy in the corner is, but I wouldn't mind finding out. I bet he knows how to have a good time. I'll be nice though and leave the honour of finding out to you."

"You're a dog."

"Yup."

Harry looked, finding the man Seamus was talking about. He looked nothingness than a movie star. Immaculate robes, combed back dark hair, eyes that caught the light of the candles in the pub. He had a casual elegance about him, innate grace. As if sensing Harry's attention, he locked eyes with Harry and gave him a smile. It was a slight quirk of narrow lips, pulling more to one side. It made Harry feel all jittery inside.

"Oh, I know that look. You like him. I found you a good one, eh? You're welcome, by the way. Now boys, don't let Harry sit with you brooding all night. Help the man out."

"You're not going to help?" Dean asked.

"I have my own conquest to take care of." Seamus sauntered off.

"So," Neville said. "Do you want us to push you or shall we leave it be and just tell Seamus that you're a lost cause?"

"That is if he remembers any of this tomorrow," said Ron.

Harry sighed. "I'm gonna need some more liquid courage."

"Here's to that!" Ron clinked their glasses together.

With Seamus gone, they saw him slipping away with Luke Johnson quite early on, the mood turned more relaxed and less pressured. Harry, Dean, Neville, and Ron joked and laughed and stayed to ordering Butterbeers. Every so often Harry looked at the handsome stranger in the corner, and without fail, the man looked back at him with a smile. The smiles turned progressively more inviting.

As Harry looked there now, he saw two drinks on the table. The man gestured for Harry to join him.

"Go on." Ron nudged him. "You want this."

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Go talk to him."

Harry tensed in his seat, and remained in it.

Talking to strangers in bars had never worked out for him before. Never meaning the one time he'd done it. That was how he'd ended up with Luke Johnson, and the less said about that the better.

"Are we gonna have to shove you off?" Dean asked.

"You don't have to talk with him," Neville said, "but even I can tell that you want to."

Harry looked at the man again. He looked about ready to rise himself and approach their table. Deciding that it would be better to keep things semi private, Harry got up. He dried his hands on his robes; they'd turned sweaty all of a sudden. He tried to feel confident as he made his way between the tables. All he managed was to feel awkward as he stumbled over his own feet.

He reached the table without further incidents. The man was smiling at him, like he had been all night, making Harry feel a bit better. He wasn't being judged for his bout of fluster induced clumsiness. The man's smile had a larger impact up close. Harry cleared his throat, trying to think of something clever to say.

"Sorry about keeping you waiting."

If Harry had thought that the man's smile was large before, it had nothing on the full blooming, pure expression of joy that it turned into now. "I have been waiting for you to say that far longer than this evening."

Harry's knees turned weak, and he sat down across from the man. "You—" Harry rolled up his sleeve. The words were there. He looked up, finding grey eyes looking at him, absolute contentment making them light up. The man had rolled up his own sleeve, and Harry saw the words he'd said written there. Such insignificant words. An excuse.

"You're not speaking English?" he said.

"I'm not," the man, his soulmate, said. Harry heard them as English. He tried to listen to what was actually being said, rather than what his brain was telling him. "I'm Loki, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Harry." Now that he was searching for the different sound, he could hear an overlay, a different musical lilt. It was true. It was actually happening.

"Yes. Yes, this is— I didn't know if I would ever get to meet you. Things have been very well—Your name is Loki and you're from Asgard?"

"I am. I did not believe you knew about us any longer. I've found nothing indicating that we are believed to be more than fictitious."

"I had a reason to learn more about your people," Harry said. "Is Loki a popular name or— Your people are thought of as gods, but surely you don't live that long? There can't be legends about you?"

Loki chuckled, a dry, low sound at the back of his throat. He then sighed, cheer gone, smile vanished. "To you, our lives must seem very long."

"Merlin," Harry said, putting two and two together. "You're— When you say that you've been waiting far longer than an evening, you really do mean far longer. That's—" It was too much. It was staggering and amazing, and impossible to live up to. Harry also understood the sadness exuding from Loki now. From his perspective, it meant being tied to a person who would soon die. He would be left alone once Harry died. It made Harry wish to share a fear he had, a suspicion that had been growing in his mind, a fear that now was less frightening than it had ever been.

"Well, I am not the one who has died and come back to life."

"I never died," Harry quickly refuted, incapable of following his gut feeling and share what he'd been thinking. "The killing curse Voldemort cast when I was a baby was reflected. It didn't hit me."

Loki gave him an unimpressed look. "My mark, your mark, faded and returned four years ago." The man traced slender fingers over the words. "The day of the Battle of Hogwarts. It made me determined to find you, and it also made it possible. Sitting here now, I can say that the pain I felt as the mark faded was a price I would willingly pay again."

"I—"

"I shall ask you about how you died and returned one day, but I am not in a hurry to understand it tonight. Tonight, I am merely pleased that I have found you." He raised his glass, and Harry followed his lead. "To us. To the waiting being over."

"To the waiting being over."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 17th December 2017
> 
> I meant to write fluff. I was asked to write fluff. I kinda, maybe did write fluff, but not before I made it somewhat angsty. Contrasts enhance? Sunshine is brighter following a rainstorm? Yeah? Well, I'm going with that being my reason. And I ended it on such a teaser. I ran out of time. And I didn't manage to squeeze in the word "charmingly" (though Loki does everything charmingly, so it's implied). Sorry about that.
> 
> I hope you liked it, Xanda. You deserve a good story for your birthday. I hope you have a great day, and a wonderful year with lots of good things coming your way and bad things staying the hell away.


End file.
